


What Once Was

by 4friedchickens



Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24639868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4friedchickens/pseuds/4friedchickens
Summary: Professor Ratigan is defeated. All of Mousedom celebrates.All but one.---Picks up after the Big Ben scene, canon divergent from there.
Relationships: Basil of Baker Street/Padraic Ratigan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	What Once Was

**Author's Note:**

> For M.B.F.

The journey back to Baker Street is waylaid, much to Basil’s annoyance, by a stop at the palace, where Dawson delivers him to the Queen’s own physician whilst Olivia and her father are put up in a grand suite for the night.

“It’s not so serious as that,” Basil gripes to Dawson as he lies prone on a bed after Doctor Warren has finished his care. Dawson sits next to him, stinking and dirty, clothes ripped, yet emanates his eternal sense of calm.

“Basil,” he chides, leaning forward and patting Basil’s hand, “you were nearly gutted by that rat. I won’t have you keeling over dead. It would make your miraculous climb from the clouds pointless if you just died now, eh?”

Basil huffs a breath and tries to sit up but falls back, wincing as the bandaged gash in his side burns. “I’m sewn up, my blood is staying where it’s meant; I just want to go home and sleep.”

“And so you shall, detective,” Warren says, smiling as he nears the bed. He holds out a small jar filled with white cream and addresses Dawson. “This is a cream for the claw marks; it’ll soothe the skin and defend against infection. Twice a day until the jar is empty.”

Basil makes to snatch the jaw from the doctor but Dawson easily beats him to it. “I shall see it is used, _properly,_ ” Dawson says, giving Basil a meaningful look. There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse sticks her head in.

“Doctor, Her Majesty would like to visit when she can.”

Warren glances at Basil, his shallow breathing, the pinched expression around his eyes, a sure sign of discomfort. “Please give Her Majesty my regrets, but it will have to wait.” He sees Basil sigh almost imperceptibly in relief. The nurse nods and backs out of the room, closing the door again.

“Now,” Warren says, clapping his paws together, “aftercare. Very important to keep the stitches dry. Don’t overexert yourself for the next week or so; maybe leave the foiling of criminal masterminds’ plans to someone else for a few days, eh?” and he and Dawson chuckle.

“No fear of that,” Basil mutters, “I feel weak as a babe.” His eyes are closed, face slack. His breaths even out. Dawson stands and walks to the door with Warren.

“One doctor to another: how bad were his wounds?” Dawson asks quietly. Warren frowns.

“The claw marks were deep. It’s the stab in the side that worried me the most, especially with the strain he put on it on that insane bike ride. He’ll be weak for a while yet, but just rest and good food will get him back on his feet.” Warren jerks his head. “Come with me, I have a kit you can take back home for him,” and they leave the room, closing the door.

Basil’s eyes snap open as the door clicks shut, and he sits up with a groan. The hole in his side, _a wickedly sharp claw that plunges in deep and leaves him breathless_ , aches as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His head pounds and the room swims. Basil takes several deep breaths, willing the room to still, and when he opens his eyes, all is calm.

\- - -

Dawson and Warren come back to an empty room.

“Basil!” Dawson groans. Warren blinks.

“Has he gone?” He watches Dawson scoop up the torn and bloodied coat that had been set on the cabinet earlier. “He really shouldn’t be walking unattended, he’s still weak from the blood loss—”

“Oh, he’s not walking,” Dawson sighs. He hurries past the doctor and down the palace corridor. “Thank you, doctor!” He calls over his shoulder as he rounds a corner.

Warren sighs to himself and decides his day is over. He crosses the room to the open window, the rich red drapes billowing in the cool evening air. As he leans out to pull the window shut, he notices a drop of blood on the sill.

And then it doesn’t take a world-class detective to see the slim figure hoisting itself onto the back of an eager dog, down near the side gate that leads from the palace walls to the city street. Warren is about to call out when he sees Dawson hurrying over. He is too far above to hear the exchange between the two, but judging from Dawson’s wagging finger and the sulky slump of Basil’s shoulders, it was a dressing-down to behold.

“What an odd sort,” Warren says to himself, watching as the two clamber atop the dog, who begins making his slow way down the street. Whether he means Basil or Dawson, well.

If the shoe fits.

\- - -

The wince when his feet hit the ground doesn’t go unnoticed. Basil inwardly sighs as Dawson bristles. “Dawson, don’t—” his knees surprise him and give way, and he starts to slide down Toby’s forepaw when he’s caught.

“I don’t know what you were thinking with this hare-brained stunt,” Dawson grumbles as he grabs a hold of Basil. “On your feet, well done.” He settles Basil and then looks over his glasses at him. “Let me see your pupils.”

Basil obediently opens his eyes wide, and his head spins.

Light spills onto the sidewalk. “Oh! I thought I heard voices out here… Doctor? Is everything all right?”

“Ah, Mrs. Judson,” Dawson turns, keeping a grip on Basil, “I do hope we didn’t wake you—”

“No, Doctor, I was just tidying up the sitting room from the chemistry experiment—”

“Oh dear, I should have helped you with that—”

“Oh, enough with the pleasantries!” Basil snaps, pushing off from Toby. “Dawson, help me inside and take me to bed!”

Mrs. Judson flushes scarlet, and she turns, muttering an excuse and fairly runs back into the house. Dawson glares at Basil, whose own cheeks are red.

“Not a word, Dawson,” Basil mutters, and he pushes forward, Dawson close behind. The kitchen door is firmly shut. Basil crosses the room slowly, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, and pauses before the stairs up to the bedrooms. “You know where the guest room is?”

“Last room on the left,” Dawson nods. He rests a hand on Basil’s back, mindful of the wounds.

“I was not literal with what I said on the stoop, Dawson,” Basil mutters, but he begins his ascent, making his slow way to the top of the stairs, and shuffles into his room. The lantern on the bedside table is lit, a low flame casting dancing shadows over the bedspread. Basil stops in front of his bed and stares at it.

“Can I help with something?” Dawson asks. Basil sighs.

“Now that I’m here I have no desire to sleep.” His voice is dejected. Dawson nods.

“Then I suggest a seat in your chair,” he gently turns Basil around and urges him to the armchair under the window. Basil complies, and soon drops with an audible sigh. He makes a face and rubs at his jaw.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I was wrung through Mrs. Judson’s laundry press,” he mutters, and winces when he sits back. Dawson knows what hides under the ratty coat, the gouging claw marks, the fur and skin ripped apart at the wicked treatment of a madman.

“Here,” Dawson takes a small pillow from the foot of the bed and helps Basil lean forward, and slides it behind him. Basil sits back gingerly and flashes Dawson a grateful look.

“Much obliged,” he says faintly. “Did you happen to get that cream from the doctor?”

“Of course,” Dawson reaches into his pocket and fishes out the jar. “As if I’d have left it behind and subject the poor man to you again.” Basil scoffs as he takes the jar and twists the lid off, sniffing suspiciously.

“If he were any kind of—” he breaks off, staring at the lid in his palm. The silence stretches on.

“Basil?”

The detective snaps back to present. “I need to get up, Dawson.” He sets the jar and lid on the arm of his chair and begins to lean forward. “Quickly,” he says.

One does not need decades of medical experience behind them in a case where simple instinct can act sooner. Dawson has a scrubbed chamber pot in Basil’s lap in an instant, and he winces sympathetically at the sound of his friend retching.

By the time Basil straightens up, Dawson is before him with a glass of water and a cold cloth. He places the cloth on the back of Basil’s neck, and holds it in place while his friend sips at the water.

“Dawson,” Basil begins roughly, “I need hot water. There’s blood under my nails still.”

Not just blood, Dawson sees after he’s hurried to the kitchen, watching Basil scrub his fingers. There are a few strands of coarse black fur floating in the bowl of hot water Dawson had procured from the kettle.

Basil inspects each finger intently before sitting back. He looks at Dawson. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Dawson shakes his head.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” Basil nods once.

“Well, I suppose I should at least attempt sleep,” he says, and gets to his feet with Dawson’s help. “Thank you, Dawson. For everything.” He looks down at the shorter mouse, expression serious.

“All in a day’s work,” Dawson replies, and smiles at his friend. “If you need help with anything in the night, you know where I am.”

He takes his leave, closing the door behind him on the sight of Basil on the edge of his bed, staring at his paws.

\- - -

Saving the Queen and simultaneously ending the reign of terror enacted by Ratigan turns out to be quite a big deal. After a restorative week at Baker Street, Basil and Dawson are summoned to the palace, along with Olivia and her father. The girl is overjoyed to see Toby again, and spares a tight hug for both Dawson and Basil, the latter stiffening under the contact, though not due to any reticence on his part, but more the healing wounds. Basil staves off any intervention from Dawson with a minute shake of his head, and smiles at Olivia when she releases him, and nothing is said.

Queen Mousetoria hosts a feast in their honour, and then a breakfast, a garden party, and a gala night with the London Orchestra in attendance. Despite their shared accommodations, Dawson feels as if he hardly has time to talk to Basil, save for when they’re pressed against each other for yet another photo op.

Dawson’s army career is loudly brought up time and again, as are Basil’s past investigative successes, the two of them thrust onto ever higher pedestals.

“…not just a doctor you know, but a _major_ , served in Afghanistan—”

“—the police force was nowhere with the case, and before you know it, here comes Basil of Baker Street, Lord Trupshaw in tow!”

And with the praise comes the questions. They ask what’s going to happen to Ratigan’s crew, the ones that had been rounded up. What about the ones who got away? Where’s Ratigan’s body? Will Basil accept the position offered by the police?

It was enough to make Dawson grit his teeth, the questions spewed forth endlessly, and he sees how it wears on Basil. It’s a fortnight after their battle in Big Ben when the two of them have a chance to sit by the fire, nursing a cup of tea. Dawson is half-asleep in his chair, the warmth of the fire lulling him to an easy sleep, when Basil breaks the silence.

“Do you know, someone asked me if Ratigan was actually dead?”

Dawson stirs and forces his eyes open to peer at Basil. “They what?” he asks fuzzily. “How could he not be? No one could survive a fall from that height…”

Dawson trails off when Basil leans back, eyes shut, mouth downturned.

“No,” he agrees. “No one could.”

\- - -

When the letter arrives seventeen days since Professor Ratigan was defeated, Dawson is pleasantly surprised. He weighs his options: more gallivanting about London like a show horse, or time with his old army colleagues. The decision makes itself.

He’s embarrassed by Mrs. Judson’s ironing of his pants before he packs them, mutters apologies even though it’s a task she took on of her own volition, but she weathers his fussing with a smile.

“Now don’t fret, Doctor, it’s not something I wouldn’t do if I didn’t want to. It makes me feel useful.” She expertly folds a freshly pressed vest and sets it on the end of the board.

“Are you moving out?”

Dawson turns to see Basil standing in the door of the sitting room, staring at the suitcase at his feet with dismay.

“No, no,” Dawson is quick to reassure him, “I’m going to be meeting with some friends from the regiment. Exchange war stories, all that. It’s a week up in the Cotswolds.”

“Oh.” The tension clears from Basil’s expression. “Well. I hope it’s pleasant.” He clears his throat, looking awkward, and hurries from the room. Dawson and Mrs. Judson exchange a look.

“You’ll need a sweater,” she says abruptly, and leaves Dawson to his thoughts.

\- - -

The day after his trip back from the Cotswolds, a train ride that has left his lower back aching, Dawson is knocking on the door of the Flaversham’s home. Perhaps he would have been wise to wait another day or two, until his muscles cramps have worked themselves out, but it had been so long since he’d been able to spend any time with them and he did so miss Olivia.

Hiram Flaversham opens the door, and a wide smile breaks out over his face. “Doctor!” he reaches and pumps Dawson’s paw enthusiastically. “Wonderful to see you, sir. Come in, come in.”

Dawson takes off his hat as he crosses into the house, and sees Olivia watching him from her spot on the floor, where she is listlessly rolling a metal ball that expands and collapses in on itself, seemingly at random. Dawson smiles at her.

“Hello, Miss Flaversham,” he nods.

Instead of her customary return greeting of “hello, Doctor Dawson,” she frowns at the floor and mutters, “h’lo.”

Dawson glances at Flaversham, who gives him a weak smile. “Later,” he mouths to Dawson.

They pass time in the sitting room, and Dawson recounts some of his past days in the country. Olivia sits and listens but doesn’t speak unless in answer to something, and he wonders what is bothering the girl, what Flaversham might tell him.

He is invited to lunch, and the three of them move to the kitchen. Sandwiches are assembled and tea is poured. Olivia spins her milk glass around and ignores her food.

The atmosphere in the room is heavy. Dawson picks at his sandwich, and looks between father and daughter.

“I’ve noticed some of your newest toys are more mechanical in nature,” Dawson tries. Flaversham nods, peeling an orange and setting the wedges on the plate at Olivia’s elbow.

“After the how-to-do with that rat, I wanted to remind myself of what I’m actually meant for,” Flaversham says. He gently nudges the plate at Olivia, whose frown darkens even as she obediently picks up a wedge.

“I’m sure there will be quite a few exciting things to come from your workshop,” Dawson smiles. “Perhaps even something special for a special someone?”

“I don’t want toys!” Olivia suddenly snaps. She squishes the orange wedge onto her plate and jumps to her feet. “They just break! I don’t want anymore toys!” Flaversham is on his feet as his daughter stomps past him, out of the room. They hear a door slam, and both wince.

“Oh, the poor dear,” Dawson frets, “I do apologize, I didn’t mean to upset her.”

Flaversham shakes his head, running a hand across his forehead. “It’s not you, doctor. It’s that detective friend of yours, spittin’ like a snake at any hand that reaches out!”

Dawson stares at Flaversham in dismay. “Basil’s done something?”

“Aye, only I don’t know what,” Flaversham sighs. “Olivia was begging me to bring her for a visit. Finally, we popped over, unannounced, though that Mrs. Judson is good about keeping out who needs to be kept out. Olivia snuck off to see Basil while I helped Mrs. Judson clean up some broken glass.” His expressions tightens. “Not five minutes after, Olivia comes running past me, teary-eyed and fuming. Now I know he saved the Queen, and did away with that dastardly rat, but I won’t have him upset my daughter!”

“No,” Dawson mutters, sitting back in his chair, an uneasy stirring in his gut, “no, of course not.” He looks up at Flaversham. “I’ll speak to him.”

\- - -

Mrs. Judson opens the door just as Dawson reaches for the knob. She lets out a shriek.

“Oh, doctor, you startled me!” she cries. She holds a steaming bucket in one hand, a stiff brush in the other. “I was just coming out to scrub the stoop and nearly got a knock on the nose.”

“My apologies, madam,” Dawson doffs his cap at her. “I never meant to frighten you.”

She rolls her eyes and steps out of the doorway, inviting him in. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say ‘frightened’; not when you live with the one we do, who in his own way can be terrifying, what with his hare-brained schemes.”

Dawson smiles and hangs his coat and hat on the stand. “Is he home?”

Mrs. Judson’s expression shutters, as she balances the fine line between employee and friend. “He’s here,” she confirms. “Hasn’t left the house all week, been in a thunderous mood.”

Dawson sighs. “I wish that were more of a surprise.”

Mrs. Judson glances behind her, to the staircase. “In the kitchen,” she mutters, and Dawson follows her, the scrubbing of the front stoop temporarily forgotten. She busies herself rattling the teapot, pouring two cups without being asked.

“Understand,” she begins, stilling in her movements, back to Dawson, “he’s intensely private when it comes to personal matters. I’d been with him almost a year before I learned he’d had a sister.”

“A sister?” Dawson repeats. “Really. He hasn’t mentioned her to me.”

“He’ll talk your ear off about bullet trajimminys and his chemistry explosions, but he seals up like a clam when it comes to what matters.” She shakes her head and sits at the kitchen table. “If only he’d find a nice young lady to settle his heart.”

“Not all things can be solved with love, ma’am,” Dawson says quietly. They each stare at their tea in silence.

“Something’s wrong with him,” Mrs. Judson speaks after a minute. “He’s never been a sweetheart, but he’s been downright cruel, these past few days. I hardly see him anymore; he told me to stop preparing his meals.” She frowns then. “And he spoke very harshly to young Miss Flaversham. I reamed him out for that, I did, for all the good it’s done. He just told me no more visitors, and now its been two days since I’ve seen hide or hair of him.”

Dawson was going over a mental checklist in his head. “Has he been doing any work? Any new cases, or any of his hundred projects scattered around the place?” Mrs. Judson shakes her head.

“He’s just been in his bedroom. Bites my head off if I inquire after his health, so now I just look for flushed cheeks, or a drooping tail, but,” she shrugs, “I’m no doctor.”

Dawson smiles and reaches for his tea. “To everyone’s benefit, I am.” He’s about to toss the tea back when Mrs. Judson stops him with one raised hand. With the other, she slips a small bottle, half-filled with an amber liquid, from the folds of her apron. She unscrews the top and adds a splash into his tea.

“Now you’re ready for the lion’s den.”

\- - -

Dawson knocks on the closed bedroom door. “Basil?” He pushes the door open. “Basil, I do hope you’re decent, as I’m coming in.”

He pushes the door wide and has to squint against the dimness. The room is quiet and hot, and his eyes adjust to the low light.

“Basil?”

“I thought doctors didn’t make house calls on Sundays,” comes a raspy voice. Dawson starts and turns, and makes out a figure slumped in an armchair to the left of the door.

“This doctor does,” he replies. The light from the sitting room casts a warm glow over the threshold but not much farther. Dawson marches across the room to tug open the drapes and shove the window open. He takes an exaggerated breath of the London air and tries to disguise his gag. There’s a loud groan from behind him.

“If I wanted sunlight in the room, I’d have done that myself,” Basil grouses. He gets to his feet and shuffles past Dawson, reaching to tug the curtains shut, but is stopped by the good doctor. “It gives me a headache,” he snaps.

“Hello, I’m Doctor David Q. Dawson. At your service,” Dawson salutes. Basil rolls his eyes and turns back to his chair. His fur is dishevelled, eyes bloodshot. Dawson knows he hasn’t been sleeping. He remembers the misery in Olivia’s eyes.

“Leave me be, Dawson,” Basil mutters. He drops back into his chair and covers his eyes with his arm. “I’m tired.”

“I know,” Dawson replies, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’ve been tired for a while.”

“Oh, get to the point!” Basil snaps, jolting forward to the edge of his seat. “You’ve been talking to Mrs. Judson, to the Flibberflabbers, to _everyone_. ‘Oh, Basil has lost his marbles! Poor chap, always been teetering on the edge, now he’s gone over!’” He swings a fist and knocks a pile of books to the floor.

The room is quiet except for the harsh pants from Basil.

“Well?” he says after a moment. “Don’t you have any _advice_ for me, doctor? Perhaps a convoluted schedule of medication that will leave me malleable, complacent?”

Dawson says nothing. Basil growls in frustration.

“Dawson, your silence is more expressive than a thousand of your words.” He rubs his temple. “If this is about my exchange with Miss Flangerhanger, I do have… regrets.”

“Oh, well that is truly wonderful to hear, Basil,” Dawson intones evenly, “I am glad to know you do have _regrets_ about your abominable treatment of a child!” He’s shouting by the end. Basil flinches.

“She didn’t deserve that,” he says lowly. “I was cruel.” He meets Dawson’s eye for the first time. “I’ll make it right, you have my word.”

“Good,” Dawson nods. “What else?”

Basil frowns. “I haven’t yelled at anyone else, if that’s what you’re asking. Mrs. Judson doesn’t count, that’s how we speak,” he adds. Dawson shakes his head.

“I mean what’s going on with you, Basil?”

“Nothing, Dawson,” Basil says. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long week.”

Dawson nods. “Yet something is weighing on your mind, I think.” Basil remains quiet. “It may help, to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, doctor,” Basil tells him shortly.

“As your friend, I disagree. You’re a far sight from the mouse I met—”

Basil snaps his fingers at Dawson. “That’s it exactly— roughly one month since we made each other’s acquaintance, and you think you know me. We are not friends, doctor.”

Dawson stands, ignoring the quiet hurt at the harsh words. “You may not be my friend, Basil, but I am always yours.” He turns. “Let me know when that means something to you.”

The doorknob is in his paw when there’s a sudden, clammy grip on his shoulder.

“Dawson,” and the word is heavy with regret. “Forgive me, please, forgive me. That was— truly unfairly said, and not a speck of truth to it.” The hold tightens. “It has been a long time since I’ve been so close to someone. If I were less inclined to reason I might say it was destiny, for us to meet.”

Dawson turns around, the paw on his shoulder sliding away. Basil is hunched miserably in on himself. “Well, we can’t have you falling victim to flights of fancy, can we?”

A small smile twists the corners of Basil’s mouth. “Indeed.”

“I feel I must apologize as well,” Dawson says as they resume their seats. “You have been struggling for some time now, and I haven’t been much help to you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Basil interjects. Dawson notes he does not deny the fact that he’s been having trouble, and latches onto that.

“May I posit a theory? You can dismiss it easily, if it’s insultingly misconstrued.”

Basil smiles a bit. “Go ahead.”

Dawson watches him closely, to gauge how his words land. “You miss Professor Ratigan.”

Basil snaps to focus in an instant. He looks at Dawson warily. “Why would I miss him?”

“He’s been a constant in your life for years now. From what I’ve read, you’ve tangled with him since the start of your career as an investigator. He was a focal point of your professional life, and if I may be so bold, your professional life is so closely interwoven with your personal that perhaps he began to overtake every aspect.”

Basil has a paw pressed absently to his side, where the stitches had marked him. “I suppose he did,” he says faintly, then snorts. “He was an evil bastard. You know about Tower Bridge?”

Dawson nods. It’s a chilling account, and he feels sick for the innocent lives lost at the whims of a madman.

Basil shakes his head. “Until then, I suppose I had tried to make excuses for him. Tried to reason away his crimes, his violent nature. But those children—” he breaks off and squeezes his eyes shut tight. “He wasn’t who I knew, so twisted by his own mind I scarcely recognized him. He did terrible things, and I _miss_ him,” he spits. “What right do I have?”

“A foe can have as much impact on your life as a friend,” Dawson replies softly. “I didn’t know you had known him, before.”

Basil sighs and leans back in his chair, eyes closed. “I’ve never told you the start of my… association with the good professor.”

“No,” Dawson agrees. “Though I also haven’t asked.”

“And now he’s dead, and it doesn’t matter,” Basil says bitterly. He looks at Dawson. “I first met Padraic Ratigan at Oxford. I was an incoming student, and he was the Dean’s assistant. We… grew close.” His gaze darts to the side, fingers worrying at the hem of his shirt. Dawson thinks he knows what is meant by ‘close’. “He was my professor, my mentor… my friend.” Basil swallows audibly.

“What happened?”

Basil looks at his feet, a frown on his face. “Do you know the definition for ‘clinical insanity’, Dawson?”

Dawson nods.

“The ugliest thing I have been witness to was the decline of such a bright mind, mired in hate, and self-loathing. I knew what was in his past, I knew what he fought against. I watched him lose. And the world lost a brilliant mind, a mind that twisted against nature, and no matter how far I reached… he was already gone.”

Basil suddenly slams a fist on the arm of his chair. “He’s been lost to me for years, but he was always there, even if only as a shadow of his former self. And now—” his voice breaks and he angrily wipes at his eyes –“and now he’s gone, in every sense. And I am left feeling a fool.”

“Why do you feel like a fool?” Dawson asks gently. Basil stares at him.

“Were you listening?” he demands. “He was the most vicious, cold-hearted _rat_ to walk the streets of London, and here I am, wishing he was still alive, wishing the past hadn’t gone the way it had, hoping fruitlessly for—” he cuts off angrily. “I’m meant to be a genius,” he says lowly. “Yet in this, I am hopelessly stupid.”

“’Love is blind’,” Dawson quotes. He offers a sad smile at Basil’s startled look. “It is an easy thing, to forgive the cruellest transgressions, the most vicious words, in the name of love. It is a thing of all living beings, no matter how great or small.”

“But I…” Basil falters.

“You what?” Dawson prods.

Basil hangs his head as if ashamed. “I… cared for him. Up until the end. Even with all he had done. What does that say about me?”

Dawson stands and crosses the small room, crouching in front of Basil. He takes one paw in his own, and waits until Basil manages to look at him. “It means your capacity for love is miles above your need to hate, to hold a grudge. Believe it or not, getting close to someone is not a flaw.”

“But the children he— and everyone else that he hurt or terrified—”

“All of them innocent souls, who did not deserve that,” Dawson says. “But Basil, you are not a bad mouse for grieving his loss. Your feelings do not negate the evil he did, or the love he showed you.”

Basil’s eyes unexpectedly fill with tears, and his face crumples. “He hurt so many, but before that… before that, he loved. He did. And I couldn’t help him.”

He buries his face in his paws, shoulders shaking. Dawson squeezes himself next to his friend on the chair, knees protesting as he goes. He sits, an arm around his friend’s shoulders, and the night passes.

\- - -

Dawson wakes in the morning to the lilting sound of a violin, the notes light and airy, coaxing him out of a deep sleep. He is startled to find himself stretched out on Basil’s bed, the window wide open, letting in the sounds of the street. He sits up and sees Basil sat on his chair, eyes closed as he moves the bow expertly, the strings eagerly responding to his movements.

The song ends, and Basil rests his bow on the floor, then looks up at Dawson. “I thought perhaps you would accompany me to the Flimmyflam’s today,” he says hesitantly. “I may need some help getting in the door.”

Dawson smiles. “I’d be glad to.”

Basil nods and stands. “Mrs. Judson has been surprisingly absent this morning,” he notes casually. Dawson feels his face redden. A smile curls the corner of Basil’s mouth. “Perhaps if I tell her you’re the sort to wait ‘til marriage—”

“My sex life is and always will be a _private_ affair,” Dawson growls. Basil chuckles.

“Don’t fret, old boy, I’ll set her straight.” There are bags under his eyes still, and a slump to his shoulders, but his eyes themselves are bright, and his mood light.

Nothing is solved, Dawson knows that. With the admission from Basil last night, however, he is hopeful that they can take a turn for the better. He feels guilty, at having ignored the signals for so long, at not seeing the weight grow heavier each day on his friend, but there is nothing to do but go forward now.

Together.

\- - -

Neither Basil nor Dawson notice anything amiss on their journey to the Flaversham’s. At an hour before lunch, the streets are busy, but it’s a pleasant rush of activity. The sun stays hidden behind heavy clouds that threaten an imminent downpour, but the two mice choose to walk all the same.

They pay no attention to the hulking figure lurking across the street from their humble abode. They take no notice of the short, rapid breaths, breathed harshly from a gaping mouth. They see no sign of red eyes watching them from an alcove, narrowing at their retreating backs. They are lost in conversation as they stroll down the street, and as such don’t hear even an echo of a snarled word.

“ _Basil._ ”


End file.
